Troy Bolton With Fangs.

I am not a *"Twilight Fan". 

I did read the first book a few months ago, to see what all the hype was about. But I was not enthralled with it enough to continue the series. (Even though I would kind of like to know the backstory of the Cullen fam, I can't sit through 500 more pages of schmaltz about Edward and 100 more pages of Bella falling down and/or otherwise hurting herself.) I also saw the movie. Two weeks ago. Felt the same way about it as I did the book.

I am also not in love with Zac Efron.

I do love musicals, and I do own Hairspray and I will go see Footloose... but I don't own any of the HSM movies or soundtracks and I honestly don't even know what else the kid is working on right now. Yes, I think he's adorable. I also think he needs facial hair. And when it comes to me and him, there is nary even a wisp of fangirly-ness within my soul.

But apparently my subconscious begs to differ.

I've dreamed about Zac Efron twice in the past two months. I have no idea why. I haven't seen in him ANYthing since I watched Hairspray back in... January?! Before Dani got married! 

The first dream was several weeks ago. Zac and I were-- star-crossed would-be lovers? I must've been working on the set of whatever movie he was shooting and we kept trying to sneak offset together but people kept interrupting us and we got really stressed out about it. We might've composed an angsty duet about it if I was a little more of a songwriter in my sleep.

But last night? My dream was straight up Twilight. Followed the story pretty closely. Except there was no Robert Pattinson-- there was Zac Efron. And there was less direct emphasis on his vampire-ness... I just knew he was... different. And there was wicked tension between me and his family. Enough that when my alarm went off, I woke up a little stressed out.

What is the matter with me??

*There has to be another name for this. Like Browncoats. Or Muggles. Or Trekkies. What is it? Enlighten me please.

Confessions

I've got a weakness for country music on sunny days. And not even good, solid, old school country music. Rascal Flatts.

I dilute my drinks a lot. I don' t really know why. Maybe I think if I add water to them, it will make them less sugary/carbonated/caffeinated and therefore healthier? Because water makes everything healthier? I only do this at home. Probably to avoid going grocery shopping as often. Plus, sometimes, I only use like 7 taste buds, so watered-down-ness doesn't even faze me.

Post-dinner, between the hours of 7:30pm and 9:30pm tonight, I ate six pieces of buttered toast.

I'm gradually becoming a Sawyer/Juliet fan... Sawliet? Julyer? LaFleuliet? Yes. I like that one. :)

I've been drinking tap water. I'm not proud of this. But it's so convenient. Plus, there are like a billion people in the world who don't even have tap water to drink. So I shouldn't complain.

I've been reading Angelina Jolie's journal about her travels to Asia, Africa and South America in conjunction with the UN Commissioner for Refugees. She was 25 when she became a Goodwill Ambassador.

I don't have a problem with boy dogs, but I'd rather not own one. Also, I'm not a fan of curly-haired dogs. I think they look sort of ridiculous. So far, I think Jiggs is the only exception to these rules.

I love brushing my teeth with baking soda. Just baking soda. So simple, so effective. Every now and then, I'm allured by some shiny gel or oddly-flavored paste... but baking soda doesn't hide behind designer packaging. It just freshens your mouth like a champ and does not ask questions or stick around to cuddle afterwards. Hit it and quit it. See you in 12 hours. Bad form for a relationship-- excellent form for toothpaste.

A Light In The Attic

So I was just reading a quote from the movie Amelie on Ginger's facebook page and it triggered a memory of this Shel Silverstein poem I discovered in elementary school. I loved the cadence of it. And before I look it up on Google, I'm going to attempt to "recite" it.

The Fly Is In.

The fly is in
The milk is in
The bottle is in
The fridge is in
The kitchen is in
The house is in
The town.

The flea is on
The collar? is on
The dog is on
The rug? is on
The carpet is on
The floor is on
The ground.

The worm? is under
The dirt? is under
The grass is under
The blanket is under
The diaper is under
The baby is under
The tree.

The sun? is bothering
The flea? is bothering
The dog is bothering
The cat is bothering
The baby is bothering
Mama is bothering
Me.

(*google-ing*... AHA! And now...)

The Fly Is In- For Real.

The fly is in
The milk is in
The bottle is in
The fridge is in
The kitchen is in
The house is in
The town.

(score!)

The flea is on
The dog is on
The quilt is on
The bed is on
The carpet is on
The floor is on
The ground.

(dangit.)

The worm is under
The ground is under
The grass is under
The blanket is under
The diaper is under
The baby is under
The tree.

(very close!)

The bee is bothering
The puppy is bothering
The dog is bothering
The cat is bothering
The baby is bothering
Mama is bothering
Me.

(I knew there were several animals involved. Stupid bee.)

Still, not a bad memory. :)

Bat-Pack Hugs

You know how babies get fussy and you pat their backs to try and make them burp?

I HATE it when people hug me like that. With little pats in rapid succession on my back. It really makes me uncomfortable.

The only people I know who do this are older people, mostly aunts or maybe somebody's mom who you don't know very well. 

Also, people who aren't used to/don't enjoy giving and receiving hugs.

Or people who are really nervous about hugging you for whatever reason.

But I am not a fussy baby. A regular embrace will do just fine. Even just a quick one. If you're that nervous about it, you should definitely opt out of the pat-back hug and just give me a secret-handshake-style high five. 

I'm not meaning to offend bat-pack huggers-- I just don't get it. It's awkward. Can anyone explain this to me? If I've just missed something, I want to understand.

Numbers vs. Numeros

Curious what it's like inside my mind sometimes?

This occurred to me when I woke up this morning.

When you say them in English, I feel like the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9 & 10 are in the equivalent of a bicycle gang. 

One's the leader, of course. Two's the sidekick. Three is the kind, lanky kid. Four and Five are fraternal twins; one wears glasses and the other has terrible handwriting. But they both play soccer. Six is the hot chick. Eight is her bff, who's pretty and sweet, but doesn't talk as much. Nine is the smart kid. And Ten is the muscle.

But Seven is out of the loop. Seven is the outcast. Less Allison Reynolds and more John Bender-- but not as cool. Seven also talks to himself and doesn't wash his hair. Maybe he's really not a bad dude-- but the other numbers just won't give him the time of day. Dirty looks abound. Because he's different. I'd even go as far as to say that Seven is Six's little brother. But he's a liability. An annoyance. A yawning pothole in the middle of an interstate. 

But in Spanish? Different story entirely. Uno, Dos are twin boys of the Weasley variety. Amusing troublemakers.  Tres, Seis & Diez are the pretty girls who go everywhere together and laugh all the time.  Quatro, Cinco & Ocho drive fast cars and play cards, gambling their lunch money away. Siete & Nueve are artistic. They write poetry. And they probably smoke.

None of the Spanish numbers are lonely though. They might not be bff's, but they can all stand to be around each other. They're more balanced. They get along and accept that they all make each other more interesting. They don't leave anyone hanging out to dry.

I think that I've unconsciously felt this way my whole life.  

Or at least since I learned how to count in Spanish.

How did I reach these conclusions? 

I unconsciously organize numbers by how many syllables are in their names.

Does that make sense?

No wonder I suck at math.

Day-By-Day Play-By-Play

Today, I spent my entire morning doing silly grown up things; Rearranging bank accounts, cutting off water service, changing my address on things, tending to my vile student loans, figuring out where to get my oil changed and emailing people who are supposed to give me writing work.

As I made my way through the tyranny of forms and deadlines, I listened to the baby triceratopses thundering about. (apparently there are 2 of them. male. both 18. and a mother as well who works at the police station. Last night, we waited, shrouded in hoodies and frustration, and confronted her when she finished walking the dog. She was surprisingly not surprised to hear the complaint and promised she'd get onto them for being noisy when they play their video games... AT 3AM.) But they're rather silent tonight, thank the Lord.

*"WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?!?!"

(*This is Holly's new catchphrase. She rolls down her window and yells it at teenagers who are in her way while she's driving. I mean, sometimes they're not even in the way... but it's still really funny.)

After the grown up things... well, really before them, I read a book. Sold by Patricia McCormick. Very realistic and relevant YA Fic Lit. It's about a 13 year old Nepalese girl who is sold by her stepfather into the sex trade in India. The whole heartbreaking story is written from her perspective, in tiny chapters that are more like diary entries. I knocked it out in about two hours. Excellent book, very well written and story captivatingly told. I hope they're actually reading it in schools and talking about it, making kids aware that people their own age are living across the world, going through unimaginable horrors.

Finishing the book made me late in finishing my writing, which made me late getting ready for work, but... oh well! It was worth it.

Got to work at 4 and before shift started, Stephen made a pasta that I wasn't super keen to try because it was wicked spicy. But he brought it up to the bar where I was, and when I inquired what it was, he nudged it toward me. "No, it's okay..." I said. He nudged it closer. "Try it," he says "I'd push it with my nose, but that could get messy... and there aren't any meatballs in it anyway."

Outwardly, I grinned. Inwardly, I melted. Just a little.  :) Oh, and the pasta was good. But spicy.

Tonight was the weekly wine tasting and it went well. Holly brought part of her cast from the ship and they had a good time. The wines were meh but the company was good.

THEN, after snagging some Wendy's on the way home, I walked into my darkened room, turned the light on, walked around for 10 minutes before coming face to face with the biggest cricket/grasshopper hybrid abomination I have ever seen. I usually have an eye for stuff like that, but this thing was perched on my wall for at least ten minutes before I noticed him. With his legs all spread out and his giant antennae all tweeched, he would barely have fit inside a Livestrong bracelet. Freaking huge nasty thing.

I'm really girly about bugs, y'all. I do NOT play. [Bugs--] Do not come in my house and force me to deal with you, it will be SO ugly for both of us.

I don't mind creeping bugs as much as I mind jumping/flying bugs that could zoom into your face if you try to sneak up and smash them. It's the not knowing that freaks me out! You cannot anticipate which way they'll dart or fly into your mouth or jump onto you and bite you or taint you or have babies on your skin.

Y'all. I spent 15 minutes. Staring at this bug. For part of the time, I had a Converse in one hand and a flip flop in the other. The rest of the time, (when I decided that smashing would be far too messy and scary) I had a plastic tupperware container and a hardback book, ready to deal with this creature somewhat humanely.

But then... I couldn't get close to it. And I knew if it jumped I would scream and wake up Jo... so I figured it'd be okay to go and wake her up anyway. She'd only been sleeping for like... maybe an hour?

:) "It's okay." I told myself. "You need her. She'll understand."

I crept over to her door.

"Jo?" I said quietly. 

"Jo!" I whispered sharply. 

"Mmmf."

"Jo?!"

No reply.

I opened the door. Jo is mostly passed out. At least an hour's drive through dreamland.

"Jo... there's a giant bug in my room. I'm going to kill it, but I'm probably going to make a lot of noise so... I'm sorry."

"What?!"

I repeated myself... and Jo, like the fabulous roommate she is, rolled out of bed and tromped down to my room to be moral support. She laughed at my tupperware and my book and my shoes and told me to just catch the thing and put it outside.

Ooo, I was scared. But I did it! Sort of.

I covered the bug with the tupperware. I did. But as soon as I did, he jumped-- and I thought I'd missed him and therefore thought he was gonna get ON me and so promptly shrieked and dropped the entire operation on the ground, freeing the abomination. It cozied up next to my printer cable on the ground.

My whole back hurt for a second from the adrenaline release. Not kidding.

(I've been laughing out loud as I'm writing this, just so you know. I'm aware of the fact that I'm ridiculous.)

But this actually created a fairly advantageous situation for me. I poked the bug with a coat hanger until it moved far enough away from the cables for me to spray it with Raid. Yup! "I fogged his Yeti ass!" Sure did! :) Then the cleanup. My other least favorite part. I hate seeing the freshly dead bug and I hate if I have to feel it crunch between my fingers. No sir. So forcing myself to look at his little corpse, I finally scooped him up on a piece of cardboard, and carried him gingerly to a swirly watery grave. 

And this whole process? Half an hour. Easy.

Hope YOUR day is awesome.  :)

Hips Don't Lie?

"If the world was crazy, you know what I'd eat?
A big slice of soup and a whole quart of meat,
A lemonade sandwich, and then I might try
Some roasted ice cream or a bicycle pie,
A nice notebook salad, an underwear roast,
An omelet of hats and some crisp cardboard toast,
A thick malted milk made from pencils and daisies,
And that's what I'd eat if the world was crazy..."
-Shel Silverstein

I'm thinkin I better be on the lookout for that lemonade sandwich... because in addition to all the really crazy things going on in the world today, I was told today, by someone who owns a modeling and talent agency* that if I want to do runway work, I'm probably gonna need to LOSE A LITTLE WEIGHT IN MY HIPS.

To which I (internally) responded "You're kidding, right? Do you know how much steak & chocolate cake I've had to eat to even get THESE?! Or have you not seen me enough to notice that I'm a half-black woman fully entitled to whatever curves I choose/am able to maintain?!?!"

I mean, she didn't say it disdainfully, she's a nice woman. And she's been in the business a long time, so I guess she would know...

But... have you SEEN the skinniness that is me?! Because I have. For 23 years now. And I'm perfectly happy with my weight AND my hard-earned little hips, and have no desire to ever appear malnourished or skeletal. Hence my intense but healthily moderated devotion to beef and cookies.

Man... good thing I don't have a passion for fashion. Or body image problems, for that matter! If I did, I sure wouldn't have gone straight to Fat Mo's after taking my headshots...

Next to anything from Red Robin, that might be the best cheeseburger and fries I've ever eaten. :)

~lady j

*Yeah, I finally signed with an agency. After years of being asked about it, it seemed like a good move. I'm hoping to make some $$$ to pay off all my retarded school loans... but judging by my diet, I'm probably the worst model ever. Hehehehehehe! :)

Salute to Beardedness

Beards -on men- in winter, are sexy.

They just are. I mean, I'm a fan of handsome manly stubble anyway, but there's something incredibly old world romantic about a man growing a beard when it's cold outside. Several of my friends have begun their journeys into beardedness this month and I am very much a fan.

And so, Men of the East, I entreat you, this No Shave November-- go forth and grow beards!